Does that make me famous? If I can accept fame by proxy or at least proximity then over the past few weeks, Yours Truly is onto a winner. In this [warning: cliché to follow] media obsessed age I must be about to be featured in Hello Magazine or at least Grazia even if it’s only a glancing and blurred side shot of my arm, boot or jowl. I am there. Well, almost. You be the judge.
This is Robert Plant (Led Zepplin). He’s famous and he was, like many other revivalists, touring New Zealand with his latest band, Space Shifters while I was back in my homeland.
I didn’t go to see him but see him I did.
This is Slow Boat Records, a fully functioning vinyl selling record shop in Wellington’s Cuba Mall. Even though I do not own a record player the shop drew me in. It was heaving and folk were buying vinyl. Apparently Robert bought a Holly Golightly album before he stopped to photograph the window display.
I don’t know what the yellow thing in his left hand is but it’s certainly a camera phone in his right and I’m inside the shop taking pics of records because they’re a novelty to me. I bet I’m in his photo.
At this point, I have to let you into a secret. I didn’t recognise him and therefore didn’t know I was by proxy/proximity famous for a photo frame moment. But that’s ok isn’t it? In this [warning: cliché to follow] celebrity obsessed society I’m taking fame where and when ever I can get it.
Yesterday I had lunch with my friend, A……. at the Bluebird Café, Kings Road. We sat outside because it was a nice Spring day, unbelievable in itself, and because David Beckham was about to leave the building and we wanted to bask, passively, in his fame and get a shot of the moment.
I might be a little old to be a groupie (at least one with any chance of success) but I can still be famous by proxy/proximity can I not?
I got a photo of a paparazzo awaiting David’s exit. You cannot see his camera because it is partially obscured by a bush but I swear it’s there, hanging around his lens toting neck. Just before I took the snap, as I was wresting camera from handbag there were upward of a half dozen paps beyond the courtyard but they left as I adjusted my focal length. DB was, apparently, leaving by the back door. My caesar salad, no croutons, extra anchovies, had just arrived so whilst the fame quotient was lessened by distance, the proxy magic still leapt out of its black top hat and into our [warning: cliché to follow] celebrity obsessed laps.
That evening I told Mr Carmichael about my A list dining experience.
“That’s cool,” he responded with enthusiasm. “Does this mean I had lunch with David Beckham today?”
Honestly, I think my husband has an [warning: cliché to follow] unhealthy obsession with celebrity. Don’t you?